Life is a war, and the families are the armies. Even if you win the war, some will never see you plant the flag.

His voice is a chain pulling me back to Earth.

Something inside my chest breaks loose and falls. It never stops falling.

Why do people need other people so much? Why can’t we just do our work and go home? Why do we have to talk and touch and dream together?

He’s kissing me everywhere, squeezing me, running his fingers over places no one else has touched.

Was there ever really a chance for us? What is down in the middle of him, his very center? Does he even have a center, or do you just cut away the layers, away, away, away, until you are left with nothing?

There’s a deliciousness to my agony that wasn’t there before- I know he’s not going away. I know it’s real.

Is this what we have to look forward to? The world of adults feels like a universe that has reached the end of its expansion and is inexorably collapsing back in on itself.

You have to believe in God to believe in trees.

Why do older people seem more honest, dependable? But it's true. People think lies are like the food pyramid or Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, broad at the base. What does a ninety-year-old have to fib about?